


Irredeemable

by bluecarrot



Series: To Be Alive [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Sad, Slow Build, Slut Shaming, Tags Are Hard, human disaster Alex Hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7360114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prequel to <i>How Lucky We Are</i>.</p><p>In which Alex absolutely does not have a crush, John Laurens tells the truth, and Burr insults the entire legal system via prepackaged cinnamon rolls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An infinitely complex reality

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [touch on you more and more every time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6781030) by [AozoraNoShita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AozoraNoShita/pseuds/AozoraNoShita). 



> this is a prologue.  
> this is part 1, if that's how you're doing stuff.  
> this is rough and not very edited I AM SORRY

"The problem," John said, "the _problem_ is that you never hear the truth until someone stabs you with it."

"What? What do you mean?"

"I mean you, specifically. You, Alex Hamilton. You fight and fight and fight and you ignore every subtle thing -- people really don't want to hurt you so much, Alex, they just don't know any other way to get through to you."

That hurt. "Not true. You don't do that." Except maybe he just had.

"You listen to me." John shrugged. "And I understand you."

Alex laughed. "Not much of a compliment, considering how you speak of your own intelligence."

"I know I'm not as smart as you --"

"You are very smart --"

"But intelligence and understanding aren't the same things, not at all." He threw something at Alex that he'd fished out from between the couch cushions -- a dime. "You should know that, you're a walking thesarus."

"You mean dictionary. But ..."

"That's the other reason people hate you, you're always correcting them --"

"I didn't mean it like that."

John put his head in his hands. "Yes, Alex."

"Who hates me?"

"Nobody. Forget I said it. Nobody hates you."

"Who?"

"Everyone loves you. I love you, Philip loves you, Peggy Schuyler loves you, Aaaah -- umm."

"Aaron Burr. You were going to say Aaron Burr loves me and then you stopped because you know that he hates me. Oh god, is he the one you were thinking about? Does Burr hate me?"

He thought of that dark, clear-sighted face; the long fingers, the elegant hands, his marvelous quietness and stillness until he broke suddenly into laughter. But Alex had never made him laugh.

"He doesn't hate you."

"He's been so ... so quiet lately."

"His wife is sick. You know that."

"Huh."

"Anyway," said John, in rather a different tone. "I thought you didn't care about him."

"I don't."

"It's okay if you have a crush on him."

"I don't."

"He's --" John gestured. "He's very nice-looking."

Burr was gorgeous. Alex nodded. "Yes."

"It's _okay,_ Alex. You and I aren't -- we never agreed to be monogamous. We're not married."

This was a familiar discussion; they both knew the direction it would take. Still Alex flinched. "I'm not ready for that again. Not yet. Phil is only seven, he's only now settling into the routine of custody, and I feel like -- Eliza and I -- I feel like it took us so long to get where we are, you know? I don't want to ruin it."

"Ruin it," said John, "by marrying me."

"I didn't mean it that way."

"You never do."

"You know I love you," said Alex. He couldn't move, he couldn't touch that carefully-blank face; he could only hold very, very still and try to keep from breaking. "John, you are so good to me. You're _amazing_."

"I know you've told me so."

"You are kind and thoughtful and --"

"And you don't want to marry me. I get it. It's fine. And now you have a crush on Aaron Burr. That's fine too."

"I do not have a -- It's just not the right time for me. Not yet."

"It's fine," said John, and kissed him, moving over as if the distance between them were only air.

 

Alex did not have a crush on Aaron Burr.

It was true he noticed every time the man walked past his door (but he _had_ to keep the door propped open or his office was too warm) -- and he noticed the slow way Burr had seemed to unravel lately, a miniscule slouch gathering together his shoulders, his trousers not so neatly pressed as they had been, his normally-immaculate sense of fashion slipping ever so slightly, as if grief -- or anticipated grief -- was pulling against him so firmly and increasing so constantly that he only noticed the strain as a pressure, and could not see its effects.

He noticed their children went to the same school. Young Theodosia (named after her mother) was small and dark-eyed and vibrantly willful; she liked Philip because he played with her as if she were a boy, roughhousing and complaining about piano lessons and turning over rocks to see what scurried out.

He noticed Burr went to parent-teacher conference night alone and hunched over his phone, avoiding eye contact with the other parents. 

He noticed that Burr did not even notice he was there.

He noticed the long smooth line of his neck disappearing into his shirtcollar; he noticed the angles of his hands and wrists and the perfect shape of his nose and the curve of his rare, soft smile. He kept returning to those brief glimpses of skin like they held a clue to something more interesting, as if shapes repeated on the body and a man's philtrum held an image of his collarbone or hips or the sweet, intimate spot behind his knees.

 

He did not notice himself noticing all this. But John Laurens did.

 

They were lovers, he and Laurens. Not with any regularity (Alex told himself) so it wasn't like they were _really_ together; Alex was still recovering from his failed marriage, he was still learning what he wanted, he needed to protect his son from more hurt, he wasn't _ready --_

And Laurens understood. Didn't he always understand? He didn't need Alex to explain and that was the biggest blessing of all. Alex could finally stop talking.

When Eliza had found them together she picked up the toddling Philip and turned around and said, with her back to them, without moving away -- she'd said -- "Too bad you didn't concentrate on divorce law, Alex." 

And that was it.

John said nothing. He cleaned himself up and dressed and brought hot tea and clothes and a box of tissues, because Alex was crying and crying and he could not seem to stop. What had he done? Ruined his own life, that was all. He'd never get past it. He was a failure, terrible, he was human garbage, he might as well die because he would never, never do anything good enough to compensate for this -- for hurting Eliza, hurting his son -- all because he was _greedy_ \--

"No," said John, when Alex was able to gasp out the words. "No, Alex. You'll never do something irredemable."

There was no condemnation in Laurens and that was the worst part of it, maybe. He accepted his own complicity as neatly and completely as he accepted Alexander himself.

John was friends with Eliza, too. He had to know that was over now.

"I love you," John had said once, ages ago, when they _were_ friends, only friends. They were all sitting around a table and drinking, laughing, talking about politics. Philip was in bed. Alex had said something clever and slightly cutting (he hadn't meant anything by it, they were just words and his brain jut wanted to say them, to delight in the form and shape of them) and Eliza swallowed and stood up from the table ("I think I heard Phil --") and Alex looked after her like he'd only just realized she had feelings and John reached across the table, giddy on friendship and the long night and a few beers, and said "Alex, I love you."

Or was it "You shithead, I love you"? Something like that. Why couldn't he remember?

He hadn't paid attention to it, not really. John was always saying that sort of thing to people, sharing his heart in a way that Alex couldn't seem to do, as much as he wanted to do it; he could write, thank god he could _write,_ but he could not simply explain himself. John just -- spoke -- and the truth came out, fully-formed, and so beautiful that no one could really mind even if it hurt.

And he was honest and brave and generous and -- 

So "I love you, too," Alex had said, and kissed him on the cheek, close to the mouth. A sloppy kiss for a sloppy, silly, slightly-drunken night. Just like they were in college again.

But John pulled back and there was a new look in his eyes and Alex -- who had been married all of two years -- found himself wishing that he were not married, that Eliza was not upstairs, that --

Nevermind. It didn't matter.

 

Except of course that it did matter. That "I love you" hung between them like a noose perfectly fitted for his own neck. Even though he hadn't said it again (not until long after he signed divorce papers and stood in court, feeling backwards, feeling like he knew all the lines to the wrong role, as the judge unmade what government had legalized) -- he knew, without asking, that John remembered.

And he knew that he'd lied.

 

It didn't matter. He packed his lunch in the morning and took it in to work, and sometimes he ate it and sometimes he went out with coworkers (not Burr, never Burr, Burr was a solitary creature of solemn mists and mellow fruitfulness) and sometimes John came home with him and sometimes he did not, and Alexander tried to argue himself into believing that love was love no matter what kind, and those three words can mean any one of the different sorts. 

It didn't work.

 

And then one day he had actually forgotten his food, and he was hungry and irritable, and no one wanted to go out because it was raining, and he only had a dollar and change and the vending machine on his level was broken so he had to take the stairs (he was too impatient to wait for the elevator) to another level, to the basement, where only clerks worked, endlessly filing in the windowless dim.

 

Burr was there.

Impossible.

Alex almost turned around and left. But that was stupid. He went forward and inserted his money and paid for something without seeing what it was. Should he say something? He shouldn't say anything. He talked too much. Burr probably hated him. Burr did hate him. He hated himself. "Hello," he said, helpless.

Burr looked up. "Hello. Hamilton, right."

Alex had worked down the hall from Burr for two years. He sank into a chair. "Yes. Right. Aaron Burr," he said, and for some reason added "sir," like they were in the military. He barely repressed the urge to giggle hysterically. Those _eyes._

Burr blinked at him. "You worked on the Charleton case, didn't you?"

"-- Yes."

"I read it."

Was that a compliment? Alex ran his hands through his hair. God, he couldn't read this man at all. "I lost."

"Juries are unpredictable because juries are full of people. That doesn't mean you lost."

"Burr, I _lost_ the _case_. He's out on the streets."

"Some of your arguments were quite -- interesting."

Alex was almost certain that was a compliment.

Burr said: "Can I offer you some advice?"

Yes. Absolutely. Can I offer you a ride home? To my place? How about a sleepover? "What is it?"

"You talk too much."

"What?"

"You overwhelm the jury. They can't pay attention. They can't remember all those words. Give them small bits of information, tell them what you want them to know in a way that sounds like what they want to hear, and you'll sway them."

"That doesn't sound like good practice of law."

"It's how you win cases." Burr shrugged. "Anyway, the law is only as strong as the lawyer."

"You can't believe that."

"You don't?"

"It would mean -- it would mean -- all those people -- you can't just disregard the foundation of morality, the solid bedrock of dedication to justice that our legal system is built on!"

"If you believe that justice and morality have anything to do with our legal system -- "

"Well?" said Alex, when it was clear he wasn't going to finish the sentence.

Burr made a face -- the first real expression he'd had since they started talking. "Maybe it was designed to work that way, Hamilton. But it doesn't. Your cinnamon roll was cooked in a real oven, too, and then it was filled with perservatives and shrink-wrapped and stuck on a truck and stuffed in the machine and waited for a year or two for you to buy it, and at this point it doesn't bear much resemblance to _food_ , does it."

Alex tried to speak and failed.

"If our laws were (how did you phrase it) based on a 'solid bedrock of morality', they wouldn't _need_ defending. The fact is, half of them exist purely to maintain the status quo. I'll grant you that the other half are trying to help, but they inevitably fail; they will always fail. They try to distill all the possibilities of an infinitely complex reality into a few lines of Latin." He stopped. "All this is news to you? You honestly thought we were here to protect the innocent and lock away the guilty? How did you survive law school?"

"I'm very smart," said Alex, like a child.

Burr looked at him with a sort of pity. "I have to get back to work."

 

It was stupid -- it was irrational -- it was illegal in several states -- but Alex had never wanted someone more. He found one of the individual toilets and pressed his face against the cool wall, trying to still his heartrate, and when that didn't work -- when he was still flushed and feverish and desperate -- he abandoned shame and put his hands down his pants and strained against his own desire.

Ridiculous. Horrible. But every time he thought about that calm voice, saying (with just a trace of scorn) "You talk too much," he ached all over again.

He invited John over that night. 

That made him ashamed, too, but Laurens was happy. Maybe the two canceled each other out.

 

Three days. He made himself wait _three days_ before he wandered oh-so-casually down to the basement break room again. This time it was full of clerks; they were surprised to see him, some of them were nervous, frightened of the big impressive lawyer: but Alex smiled. "Has Mr Burr been down here lately?"

"Not today," said one."

"Shame," said another.

"He's married," said the first.

"Window-shopping don't cost," said the second, and they all laughed.

"Oh, now you've made poor Mr Hamilton blush," said the first. "He doesn't need to hear this sort of talk." So he smiled at her, too -- but as she passed by, she dropped him a conspiratorial wink. "Usually around 1:15," she said, _sotto vocce_.

"Thanks," said Alex. He meant it.

 

At 1:18, therefore, he (again) wandered downstairs with the upmost casualty (again); this time he surprised both of them by walking in to find Burr trying to get some food from the machine.

It was like finding the man had a secret hobby of paint-by-numbers, or collecting outdated calenders of kittens, or something. Alex said: "Are you fucking kidding me with this shit?"

Burr stared. "Excuse me?"

"Not even a week ago you insulted my food choices -- you insulted our entire legal system all the way back to the Federalist Papers, Burr. And now you're going after the same crappy meal for yourself? I think you  _enjoy_ being rude."

"Hamilton, did I ever give you the impression that I care what you think?"

"... No. Actually, no. Never."

"Then why are you telling me?"

"Christ," said Alex; he was angry and hurt and angry a second time at his own pain. "You're a human disaster. Do you talk to everyone like this? How did you ever convince your wife to marry you? Did you just stand close by and criticize her until she gave in?"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he remembered Theodosia Burr was sick, was probably going to die, was possibly dying at this moment. 

He felt himself turn red. He stuttered out an apology.

Burr didn't react at all. "Hamilton, stop that noise. We're coworkers, not siblings. We don't need to _like_ each other. It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters."

"Why are you upset?"

"I'm not."

"Fine. Goodbye."

" _Burr_ ," said Alex, but he was gone.

 

Two weeks later Burr finally came back to the basement lunchroom.

Two _weeks_. Ten (business) days of Alex haunting the halls, listening with his door opened for any mention of Aaron Burr. Two weeks of seeing John Laurens more than was good for either of them. (He tried not to think about that.)

He waited, safely hidden in a corner, until Burr had finished his angry stalking across the length of the room and made it to the machines. "Aaron?"

Burr started. He swore at length.

"I didn't know you spoke French," said Alex, briefly distracted by the hard set of that jawline.

"You don't know anything about me."

That was remarkably untrue, but as everything he knew came from eavesdropping and creeping around on Burr's painfully-sparse social media, he didn't argue. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"I was rude to you last time we talked."

Burr shut his eyes briefly, looking for all the world as if this conversation were really too much to bother with. "It's fine."

"You _hate_ rude people."

"It doesn't matter."

"You keep saying that but you're only saying it because you hate me and you want me to be quiet and leave you alone."

"Hamilton --"

"Alex," said Alex, and dammit, he couldn't help that it came out husky.

"Hamilton, _stop._ What are you on about? When were you rude?"

Alex said: "You don't remember." And (god help him) he felt like shattering -- like he wanted to do it, like he was doing it, like a breakdown was an appropriate response to this situation. He remembered his face pressed against the wall in the toilet, gripping himself, hot and unhappy. _Aaron._

Stupid to think that one little argument would be important enough for Burr to remember. He was alone in this. He knew that. He should have known. "Nevermind," he said. "Nothing. It's nothing."

He watched Burr's gaze flicker over him; he watched him decide not to bother; he watched him decide to leave again without his crappy lunch, to go away and find some other place to eat where he wouldn't be perpetually bothered by a needy, greedy mess like Alex.

He'd never come back.

_I'm in love with you,_ he thought after that retreating form. It was the first time he'd put the aching tension in his chest into words, and it made him feel sick; he pressed a hand over his heart. 

The man was _married_. To a _woman_.

And he clearly hated Alex.

God, what an idiot he was. 

 

 

He cried that night.

John was upset, confused: he hadn't seen him cry since that day with Eliza, and nothing was going on now, nothing that Alex would _talk_ about, but why was he upset, why --

"Please don't," said Alex, muffled, behind his hands. " _Please_ don't. Just --"

And John Laurens, bless him, closed his mouth and closed his eyes and put his arms around Alex, pulling him in, letting him stay there, letting him rest.


	2. "I know you're awake."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alexander Hamilton has a dream and John Laurens has a house key.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the most openly-dirty thing i've ever written (i don't do "mature", it's not my thing) -- but it feels right for Alex Hamilton's point-of-view to be more explicit than Burr's, doesn't it?

 

 

 

 

They slept together that night. It was only sleep. Alex was too unhappy for anything more, and John too kind to pressure an unwilling partner. They slept together, curled up tightly, like leaves that fold shut against an onslaught of rain.

Sometime around midnight Alex woke up. 

He had been dreaming and now it was over. 

He didn't want it to be over.

He stared into the darkness for a while, uncomfortable and aching and arguing with himself that he ought to get up, just _get up_ and shower maybe, do something to relieve himself of leaden pressure, a suitable accompaniment to the bitter taste of his own tears.

Instead he turned to John Laurens and pressed himself up against that sleeping form. He didn't _want_ to touch himself tonight; he didn't want to be furtive and secretive and alone. He wanted comfort. And comfort was John. (Hadn't it always been him? but he wouldn't think of that.) So he bit his lip and moved ever so slightly into the curve of backside and hip, letting his thumb drag a trail, breathing in the lovely scent of sleep-warm skin. 

He wasn't doing anything wrong. He wasn't doing _anything._

"Alex?" 

"Sorry." He drew back. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"That's the sort of thing I don't mind being woken for." John Laurens was soft-voiced, amused, and he was beautiful, too, not at all like the cold withdrawn beauty of -- of some people; his looks came from the warmth of personality. His heart reflected on his face and shone outward.

Alex shut his eyes to get away from that honesty.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Just -- strange dreams."

"I'm sorry." A small movement, a single stroke. "Does this help?"

"Ah. It does, actually. Yes." Alex couldn't _ask,_ he wouldn't ask, but if John gave it to him, couldn't he accept it? Wasn't that the sort of thing Laurens did? Wasn't he just innately selfless? Maybe he knew already and didn't mind.

"You're halfway there from your dream, and you're complaining about it?" But John was laughing, still half-asleep himself, not really paying attention.

Alex made some halfhearted attempts at reciprocation; he ran his hands over him, touching shoulders and chest and a soft indented space low down, and John shivered, his grip tightened briefly, but he said: "No. Don't worry, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I don't want to be ... to be ..." 

_To be rude,_ he thought.

"It's no problem. Really. Uh. Alex, if you keep on doing that it _will_ be a problem --"

So Alex dropped his hands to the mattress and John laughed again, less amused now, and he leaned in to kiss him hot and rough. "Is this what you dreamed about?

"Yes."

"This?" 

Moving against him.

"Yes.  _Yes._ Jesus. John -- could you -- "

"Hmm?"

"You -- your mouth -- I want -- would you -- please --" He felt faint, dizzy; he could barely form the words, barely press out breath to speak them. He hadn't given or received it for several years -- not since it ended his marriage. He didn't know what it would mean to John that he asked for it now. He didn't know what it meant for himself.

It was a long time before John moved. Alex had his eyes shut tight, too tight to peep through the lashes, so he only felt the hands press at his shoulders _(lay back)_ and felt a trail of fingertips and kisses move south _(hold still, hold still)_ and then, oh god, oh _god_

He was lost at once. 

His last thought was  _I shouldn't have asked --_

Because everything in him was awash with sensation; he was lost on the tide. Dimly he knew he was gasping aloud, he knew his hands curled in the sheets -- and then John changed the angle and Alex went blank. 

He thought of his dream, he couldn't help it _(you never can help it, Alex)_ and reached down to touch that curly head, seeking. 

John did something that made everything worse and Alex convulsively gripped tight and John made a noise against him that ended with a puff of air and Alex shuddered and swore and oh god he couldn't, he could _not bear it --_

He cried out and arched against that yielding warmth and -- it was over. 

John got up quickly, wordless, and left the room.

Alex curled in the middle of the bed around empty air. He _felt_ empty. Hollow. Not the quietness of release but almost sickly voided.

He shouldn't have done that. It was wrong. It was so wrong. God, what was he thinking to use John like that? He was a coward and a bastard and he deserved to be shot.

And he wanted to do it again. 

He thought of his dream and shuddered again and put his hands over his eyes as if darkness could put the thought away. _No._ He would not, no, not with John, not _to_ John, he couldn't lose someone else, and Alex loved him -- he did -- even if it wasn't the right sort of love, he felt it and he had to be a decent fucking person. 

He could do that. It wasn't so difficult. 

Surely he could do that.

John came in, smelling faintly of toothpaste. He sat down on the edge of the mattress. "Alex?"

"Mmm." He didn't want to talk. He wanted to lay in bed and quietly hate himself. He was good at that. He'd had so much practice.

"I know you're awake. Sit up."

Up he sat.

John was looking at the floor. Not good. "What name did you say? There at the end?"

"I -- I didn't." Had he?

"I heard you."

Alex stammered. "I didn't _intend_ to say anything. If I _did_ say something. I don't remember saying anything at all."

"Oh, I am sure you didn't _intend_ it. You never _intend._  You go ahead on autopilot, don't you? You just take and take and take --"

"Please don't --"

"And you keep getting what you want, don't you, Alex? How does that feel? Always winning." He'd never seen John like this before -- quiet and desolate. Giving up. "Do you want me to do it again, Alex? Are you ready for that?" Without warning he pulled down the sheets, to see, and laughed. It was a horrible noise. "So, yeah, you are. Awesome. Should I shave my head, too, so it's easier for you to pretend?"

Alex drew his knees to his chest, hiding the evidence -- as it were. His heart felt tight. "I don't know what you mean."

"You do. Stop lying."

If he started crying right now he wouldn't stop, not ever. "John _._ Stop looking at me like that. _Please._ "

"Are you sure that's my name?"

"Please don't be like this. It was just a fucking name. I'm _here_. I'm _with you._ I can't help what I say. I don't even remember saying it."

"I know you can't stop yourself. You never can. You're helpless against your own desires. Poor little Alex, must be just awful to be pure Id." 

He couldn't take this. He had to _talk._ He had to _say something_ before the last whole piece in his fractured life broke apart entirely. "I love you," he said, stuttering around the pain.

"Oh, really? Marry me, then. Say the word and we'll go to court this morning." His voice broke. "I'll let you call me any name you want, Alex."

Alexander sat mute.

"That's exactly what I thought. So. I'm going home. Goodbye, my darling."

"Your car isn't here." His mouth felt numb, his tongue felt numb ... 

"I'll walk."

"It's _ten miles._ "

"Strangely enough, I have some energy to burn off." He was dressing quick in his old work clothes, tugging on dirty socks.

Alex watched. He couldn't think of anything to say.

"Gotta say," said Laurens, casually; he was separating something off from his keyring. "Miserable as I am right now, it does give me a certain measure of, shall we call it _satisfaction?_ to think that is the closest you'll ever get to  _actually fucking Aaron Burr."_

He tossed over the whatever-it-was and Alex caught it automatically, glancing down, missing the right moment to jump out of bed, to run after Laurens, to say something, anything to make this better -- if there was anything he could have said.

A key. A spare key. His own spare, to his own apartment, given the same day he'd moved out of the house with Eliza, the same day he'd rented the new place, the same day. ( _"Aren't you afraid I'll be over all the time?"_  John Laurens had said, and  _"Not at all,"_ said Alex.)

Even from the bedroom he could hear the front door slam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexander's argument -- that he doesn't remember saying anything, and if he DID say something he didn't mean it, and anyway he is sure he didn't say anything to begin with -- is a paraphrase of his defence to Burr, just before their duel.
> 
> In real life Hamilton also implied that he had insulted Burr _so often_ that he couldn't possibly be expected to remember every instance, much less apologize for them, because at least half the insults were justified, right? 
> 
> What a pair of dumbasses


	3. Finally, finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IN WHICH Alexander Hamilton makes any number of ill-considered decisions, John Laurens issues an ultimatum, and Aaron Burr gets staggeringly drunk but does not lose his excellent sense of direction

 

 

 

It took Alex all of two hours to give up posturing that he would be okay without John Laurens.

It wasn't only because they were friends -- _best_ friends, really, although that phrase made him feel like a twelve-year-old. John was his balance, his steadying rock. He was always there -- he had always been there -- since the first day of college, when Alex was so young and so afraid, feeling very small and very obviously  _not white_ among all the tall, confident kids who had probably gone to prep schools from kindergarten onward. He _knew_ he was smart, he _knew_ he could work hard, he _knew_ he would be fine. Absolutely totally fine _._

Eventually. 

For sure. 

But he wasn't there yet.

He stood on campus holding a map crumbled in his right hand. He shoved his left hand in his pocket and tapped his foot impatiently, like he was waiting for someone, like someone was coming to see him, like he wasn't totally alone.

John Laurens walked past, hesitated, and turned back. 

Laurens was another freshman but right then it seemed he was old enough to graduate -- he had that sort of confidence. And everything else about him was right too. His clothes, his hair, even those damned freckles, heightening the mellow tone of his skin, playing with his eyes -- how could anyone possibly be so lucky as to match appearance and personality, Alex didn't understand, but there it was. And his smile was as infectious as a cold sore.

He was the only good thing, the only _solid_ thing. Everything else in the world was bitter and unprofitable -- including Alex himself. How could he count himself as worthy when he knew what he'd done, what he was, what he wanted to do?

 

They sat in a meeting, all of them together in one small, overheated room. Alex and Burr and Laurens and Schuyler and the others, people he knew and liked and those he disliked and some he didn't know at all. 

Alex wasn't paying attention to the speaker. 

He played with his hair.

Laurens had come in with plenty of time to spare, saw Alex, and sat far enough in front of him that they wouldn't be able to speak together easily.

Burr walked in almost-but-not-quite-late, taken the last seat without a word of apology or acknowledgement about the time, and morosely drank coffee. He tapped a pen on a spiral notepad. He did not take notes.

Alex was too restless _not_ to write, though he certainly wasn't marking down what the speaker was saying. He was trying out ideas. Ways to convince Laurens to come back. He was still trying to decide if getting him drunk was a moral decision (because it lead to a greater good) or an immoral one (because it removed his autonomy) when the meeting ended.

Excellent. Now he could go back to ... sitting at his desk and being miserable alone. Really excellent.

He collected his things, slowly.

Laurens was talking to someone. A young dark skinned man with delicate features. He touched his arm; he smiled; he left; and John trailed behind a step or two, walking more languidly, openly watching from behind. 

Who the _hell_ was that? A clerk? A new hire? Alex stuffed his things together into his bag. He'd just -- he would just -- he'd --

"Hamilton?"

He flushed. "Sorry, what?"

Peggy looked at him evenly. The room was empty aside from them. "You look a little ... out of it. Did you hear a single word of that meeting?"

"Something about government waste," he muttered.

He must have been really off; she laughed. "Alexander, it's none of my business, but have you thought of taking time off work?"

"I don't need any time off."

"Everyone," she said, "needs time off."

"Not me."

" _Everyone_ needs time off."

He gritted his teeth. "I am _fine_."

She considered him. "Non-sequitur, here. Have you thought of making friends with Aaron Burr? Or trying to?"

No, he had not, for the simple reason that it wasn't _friendship_ he was interested in. "Um. No. Why?"

"You're both utterly impossible."

 

  
_Friends_ , he thought. Hah. She was right: it was impossible.

But he was lonesome. And John kept on dating-or-possibly-not-dating that attractive young man, and he wouldn't respond to texts or emails, and Alex was not quite desperate enough to visit him at work and make a scene, even though he really (really) wanted to do it ... 

So one day he deliberately bought too much lunch. It was an enormous sandwich from the tiny shop down the street, the sort of place that refused to take substitutions unless you could provide proof of a condition requiring it (documented medical necessities only; religious mandate considered unverifiable.) He bought something by the poetical name of "Number 8" -- rye bread in thick slices, smeared with sauerkraut, layered in corned beef so tender and fine it was almost shredded, with two types of mustard. And he asked them to cut it in half and wrap each side individually.

The woman behind the counter winked at him as she handed over the bag. "Here, sweetie."

Huh. Did he look cute? Pathetic? Both? Would it work on Aaron Burr?

He sat down across from him, deliberately not speaking or acknowledging the other man as if it were mere coincidence they were in the lunchroom at the same time; he opened up the paper back and took out both halves of the sandwich and hefted each side for a moment, arching "gee whiz!" eyebrows, not glancing up.

Burr was neither eating anything nor apparently doing anything; after a moment of Alexander's expressions and shrugs, he sighed. "For the love of Christ, your silence is worse than your chatter. What is it?"

"They gave me too much food."

"Hardly a problem."

"Did you have lunch already? Here. Take half of mine." He shoved it across the table and opened up his own side like it was a foregone conclusion that Burr would accept.

"I'm fine. Thank you."

"You need to eat."

"Pardon, but seeing the contents of yours is made me less inclined, not more." But he was smiling. Almost smiling.

"Mmmm," said Alex, without not smiling at all. "Perfect. A little salty, a little sweet. Yum."

"It looks ... revolting."

"Perfect. As perfect as only something that _looks_ _revolting_ could possibly taste."

Burr actually glared.

Alex lost patience. "Fucking eat it, Burr."

"Hamilton --"

"Goddammit, will you accept that I am trying to apologize and eat the sandwich already?"

Burr frowned more deeply, then. He slowly unwrapped the package. "You're a nuisance."

"I aim to please."

They ate.

"This is good."

"I told you so."

Another minute.

"Did Peggy Schulyer send you over here? -- Don't bother answering, you can't hide anything in your expression. How you ever manage to win cases I'll never know." He made a face. "Schuyler is another nuisance."

"Just because she _cares_ about you --"

"She doesn't need to bother."

"And I'm a good lawyer," said Alex. "Better than you."

Burr started to laugh -- actually laugh, not sneer or scorn or roll his eyes. He looked pleased; he looked almost delighted. "You're a mediocre lawyer and a damned liar, Alexander Hamilton." 

_Alexander_. He bit down on his lip to keep from speaking aloud.  _Will you say my name again? Will you gasp a little when you say it? Please?_  He shifted on the chair. 

Aaron was still smiling -- just a moment. Then it fell away. "It's good to have a meal made by someone else," he said, shortly. "But I won't accept it again, so don't try the same ridiculous scheme tomorrow. Still -- for today -- thank you."

And he left.

And that was that.

 

Alexander Hamilton decided he must be the most terrible person in the world. Here he'd hurt his dearest friend -- sometimes it felt like his only friend -- turned him away -- and for what? Why couldn't he commit to Laurens? Because of a fantasy. 

The man is _married_ , he reminded himself, in the single toilets again, furious at himself for this physical reaction he could not seem to control. _Married_. Married to a _woman._ A _dying_ woman. He is _lonely_ and  _grieving_ and -- he punctuated each thought with a quick motion and stopped suddenly, tensing all over, toes curling, making a soft noise in his throat.

The reminders didn't help; they only made him feel worse.

He cleaned up and stood for a long moment looking at his own reflection.

He was flushed; he looked languid. His lip was swollen from where he'd chewed on it. 

Ridiculous. Impossible.

So Alex tied back his hair more neatly and tried to calm himself (think of icicles; think of Antarctica; think of the rules for cricket and that sad commercial with the shelter animals, for fuck's sake _pull yourself together_ ) -- and when he felt something close to presentable he unlocked the door and went out.

Laurens was there -- he was reaching for the handle. Alex almost opened the door unto his foot. 

They jumped apart.

"Sorry," said Alex. His heart was in his throat. He wanted to grab him and -- and what? Kiss him, hold him. Hold him down while they argued, maybe. He stuffed his hands in his pockets so he wouldn't do any of it.

"No problem." He tried to brush past and stopped, looking over Alex's face. "You didn't. Tell me you didn't. _"_

_"_ Didn't what?"

Laurens grabbed one of his hands and smelled it -- Alex was too shocked to move, too distracted by the feeling of skin on skin and the hazy, dopamine feeling of his orgasm; he didn't jerk away in time. John shook his head. "You're insane." But there was no condemnation in his voice. 

Dimly he realized he still had hold of his hand -- his wrist, really -- it didn't matter, they were touching. Still touching. And not talking. Someone had to say something. He had to talk. He had to ask. "Are you seeing that man?"

"What man?"

"Any of them."

Laurens let go his hand then. "Yes."

"I wish you wouldn't."

He laughed out loud. "Are you offering me something better?"

"Yes," said Alex.

"Don't say that. You're not offering me anything _._ You don't want me like that. Not permanently."

"I do. I _do._ I miss you so badly. Every damn day I've missed you. Not the -- well, not _only_ that. You know that. I miss your face. I miss you being around. I miss how you laugh at me and tell me I'm being stupid. I miss _you_. You are funny and kind and generous and charming and I don't want you to give that to other people. I am terribly selfish, you know. And I want you."

"I'm not the only person you want," said John, low.

Alex swallowed hard. "Does it matter? He's --" He shrugged. Married. Straight. Obviously uninterested. Fill in the blank.

"You used me."

"Yes."

"Did you do it on purpose?"

"No. Yes. No."

"Are you going to do it again?"

"I didn't mean to do it the first time," said Alex. He was not going to cry at work, he wasn't. He refused. It was too humiliating.

"So," said John Laurens. "I guess I know what that means." He studied Alex. "Fine. But it's casual now. I won't stop dating."

"That's fine. I won't ask you to."

"And if you ever call me -- _another name_ , I will cheerfully dismember you and paint the walls with your blood."

That was fair, too. Alex nodded.

"Just -- " Laurens shut his eyes; he looked suddenly tired. "Do what you want, okay? Go after whomever you like. Just don't say it out loud. At least give me that much respect. Let me feel like you ..." He stopped.

"Oh but I _do_ \--"

"Alex, _stop._  That's the third thing. That's the only other thing. Don't lie and tell me you love me. Okay? Because you don't. Not in the way that -- that you're implying you do. _Stop arguing, counselor._ This is an ultimatum. I have laid out my conditions and you may take them or leave them."

What else did he have? Or maybe the question was: without John, did he have anything? 

"Yes," he said. _Yes._

 

This made it easier.

This made it harder. 

They were in bed. Alex had his head on Laurens' chest; those long fingers were in his hair, stroking and tugging out tiny knots, and he was sleepy and replete. He loved to be held like this, cradled, touched -- he loved John, he loved everyone in the world -- he could almost purr --

A ringtone went off; Laurens yawned and found his phone and canceled the noise and pushed gently at Alex until he raised up his head. "That was  _comfortable._ "

"I need to leave."

"What?"

"I have a date tonight. Stop that face, Alex. You knew I'm seeing other people. Thomas, in this case." He got up and started dressing again. "Where did my shirt get to?"

He _had_ known; he'd agreed to this; but idea and reality were somewhat different beasts. "You're leaving me? To be with him?"

John sat on the bed; he laced his shoes. "Yes. That's what a date is."

"Is it _only_ him? And me?" He couldn't  _help_  that his voice went small and high at the end of the sentence. "When will you be back?"

"Alex --" Laurens leaned over and kissed Alex on the forehead; he looked almost sympathetic. "I'll probably spend the night. But I'll see you around, okay? Text me or something. You know how to work a phone."

 

Philip came back from his mother's and that was another complication. Alexander loved his child -- truly, deeply loved him -- but he didn't feel he was a good father. Eliza was  _excellent_  at parenting, he thought. It came naturally to her. (Yet another way she exemplified his failures.) Alex could change diapers and wash up spit as well as anyone, that was easy to learn, but building a _relationship_ was something else entirely. He knew how to talk with Philip, he  _had known_ , when his world was the size of a few rooms and a postage-stamp backyard. Now he was going to school and socializing and, Christ, piano lessons! (Eliza's instance.) As if he could afford all that. He was only a junior counselor, the most recent hired to the firm. He was still paying off school loans. He probably would be doing that for quite some time. 

The lessons made Phil happy, he thought and hoped and prayed. So he would find a way to afford it. Things weren't as bad as all that.

 

And one day Philip came home from school with someone. _A friend_ , he said, and in the usual manner of seven-year-olds he did not think to introduce her.

"Theo Burr," she said, politely, and put out her hand.

Alex shook it tentatively. Theo Burr.  _Theodosia Burr._  He was standing here with Aaron Burr's daughter.

He shouldn't say anything. He'd just be quiet. He didn't want to talk about Aaron Burr -- wretched disaster of a man. "I work with your father," he said to her, helpless.

"Oh, you are lucky. He is wonderfully clever." 

She seemed sincere. She seemed to require a response. "Ah," said Alex, cleverly. "I'm afraid I don't know him very well."

Theo gave him a sharp look which could have meant any number of impolite things, but said nothing.

If he insulted his daughter, Burr would never forgive him. He tried again. "I hope your mother is feeling better."

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"Why do grown-ups say that? Why do you say that you're sorry when it's not your fault? It's nobody's fault that Ma is sick; it just happened. Awful things just happen, sometimes."

"It's God's fault," said Phil, listening.

Theodosia fixed her dark glare on him. "It is _nobody's_ fault."

"I mean," said Alex, soft, "I wish you didn't hurt so."

Her face twisted. "I'm not the one hurting."

"Come see my piano," said Philip, and pulled her away.

 

Later Alex sat in the living room and listened to their clumsy duet, banter and bickering rising over the music. He tried to read a trade magazine and couldn't; instead he looked outside, into the rain that fell in sheets, watching it flow and seem to dance past the yellow street-lamp glow. 

A few cars rolled past, slowly, careful on the flooding streets.

One car was parked outside his house. Someone sat inside.

The light was tricky; it took a full minute before he was sure, before he could trust that he wasn't hallucinating the familiar profile. Whatever was Burr doing there? Why didn't he just come in? Did he hate him that much? 

As if his thoughts had been audible, Burr turned. 

Alex let the curtain fall. His heart was beating fast. Too fast.  _He is wonderfully clever_. Please god he hadn't noticed Alex staring at him; please god, if he saw he did not understand what it meant. 

Not that it meant anything at all, he thought. But the dense ache started up in his stomach again.

 

Later: 

Alex pulled John Laurens against him, sweating and straining; he muffled a groan in his neck. He did not cry or shatter. He was staying quiet -- quiet -- he was learning quietness -- he shut his eyes tightly closed. 

He didn't want to have to _pretend_ this much. He put his hands in that curly mass of hair and wished it was the soft stubble of a shaved head; he breathed in the complicated scent of his lover and wished hotly it was something else -- except he didn't know how Burr smelled, not really, he could only imagine. And imagination was too much work nowadays, it wasn't good enough. He wanted the real thing. He wanted more. 

He was greedy. He knew it.

He thought of that clean profile in the car, alone, barely visible through rain; he thought of Burr's laughter (laughing _at_ him _,_ it was very unkind); he remembered the pink tongue that had come out once, ever so briefly, to clean a crumb from his mouth. And he openly stared.

Their eyes had met. Alex blushed red, but didn't look away.  _Burr_ looked away. He seemed conscious for a second too, before the usual control fell over his face again. He _knew_. 

Well, that was fine. Wasn't it? Alex wasn't ashamed of himself, he didn't fear his own desire, he didn't run ... 

Except that he did. He moaned again (more quietly now) with the sheer pain of _needing_.

And John Laurens, who knew or guessed every secret Alexander had ever tried to keep -- Laurens, who understood unrequited love -- he was gentle and kind in the half-light coming from the open window. He kissed Alex on the eyes and mouth and the hollow of his throat. "You are beautiful," he said, and when he shivered and tried to argue John let his hands do whatever they wanted, whatever Alex wanted, anything at all and everywhere, until they were both warmed through and relaxed and ready to sleep.

 

But Laurens wasn't there all the time. He kept to his word. He dated other people -- the smooth-skinned man in their office ( _Thomas,_ Alex thought; he was jealous and angry with himself for it) -- Alex saw them around every so often, talking casually, kissing lightly, casually, with the visible promise of _more_ between them, humming like a high-tension wire. There were others, too. Alex didn't see them. He didn't ask about them. He didn't want to know. 

Sometimes John came back late after those meet-ups, smelling faintly of other people's aftershave or skin; some times he did not come home at all.

Alex couldn't bear it. "Will I see you tonight?" he said as casually as he could manage, leaning one-handed on John's desk. 

It was Wednesday night. Nobody went out on Wednesdays except established couples seeking to escape the crowds.

"Oh, I'm sorry; didn't I tell you? Thom and I have a date night." He didn't seem sorry. He was putting things into a bag, tidying his space, looking around for his phone, looking anywhere but in Alex's face.

"No," said Alex. "You didn't tell me that."

"I thought I did."

"You didn't."

Laurens didn't move for a long moment. He was staring at a sticky note attached to his computer monitor -- a single heart, shaded in. "You can't be like this."

"Yeah? How am I being? And why not?"

"You don't have the right." He stood up and pushed in his chair. "Look. I've really got to leave."

"John --"

"Save it, Alex. I'll talk to you when ... later. When you stop being disingenuous. We'll talk, okay? For now I have to go." But he stood a minute longer, waiting for Alex to lift to his tiptoes and kiss the corner of his mouth, putting his arms around his neck, lingering, holding on and holding on.

"I love you," said Alex, settling back down on his heels. "I mean it."

"Thanks."

"Is that all?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Tell me it matters to you."

John finally raised his head. "When it matters to _you_ , Alex, let me know. For now, I've got a date." And -- that appointment notwithstanding -- he took a fistful of Alex's shirt and kissed him on the mouth, hard. 

They moved apart.

Alex licked his mouth.

Laurens said: "Don't wait up for me. I won't be coming around."

 

Alex couldn't sleep.

He wasn't _waiting,_  he told himself. He was just ... awake. He lay in bed a long time, staring up at the grey void of the ceiling. He didn't care that John was dating around -- did he? 

No.

He didn't.

Not really. 

So why did it hurt?

It was a warm night in early October; a storm front was moving in, bringing a long slow rain and an uneasy feeling. Even Phil -- possibly the most even-tempered child ever born -- had been restless and fussy that day, deciding he didn't like his favorite dinner, refusing to do his single page of homework, slamming the lid on the piano. Alex found himself actually _yelling;_ he'd promised himself (and Eliza) he would never raise his voice. 

He rubbed his forehead. "I'm sorry. Phil -- are you -- are you okay -- " 

But his son was in his bedroom and the door was shut between them and Alex couldn't think of anything to do but sit on the sofa and look at his empty hands.

Midnight. One am. Two am. 

He shifted in bed and tried to blank out his mind, tried to count his breathing, tried to recite all the words he knew in alphabetical order -- anything at all to dull his mind into peace.

It didn't work.

Something crashed outside.

Kids? he thought, vaguely. Or raccoons? Rats, maybe. Or a burglar.

He sat up at that and swung his legs out of the bed.

He had a baseball bat. 

He could deal with this. Human rodents or the four-legged sort: it didn't matter. He could deal.

Noiselessly he padded down the steps, bat in hand, and pressed his eye to the peephole -- and almost laughed aloud. _Impossible._  But there it was -- clear enough even through the curved glass. Aaron fucking Burr on his porch-step, knocking over plants, just now leaning against the banister and clearly drunk.

Alex waited to unlock the door until he was reasonably sure he could speak in a normal voice. "Burr? Aaron Burr? What the hell are you doing here?" 

Burr shook his head, like he was denying the entire thing.

"You are _drunk."_

Burr muttered something about Alex being close by. Close by to _what?_ They lived at opposite ends of the damn city. "Come here," said Alex, and finally -- _finally_ \-- put his hands on that warm body. It was wrong to be so glad about this, probably. But he couldn't let Burr stay all night on the stoop, could he? "I'll make you tea. Come into the kitchen, we can't talk right here, it carries upstairs and Phil is asleep. Where is Theo? Tell me you didn't leave her alone." Alone, he'd said; what a horrible thing to say. His wife was sick and bedridden, not dead. He flinched at his own carelessness as he went on filling the teakettle, chattering nonsense, glancing over. How incongruous Burr looked in his kitchen, so different to all the common things like spatulas and herb snips.

"Neighbor," said Burr. "Someone. Some neighbor."

He didn't even know who was watching his daughter? He really was drunk. "What sort of tea do you want? We have --" He ran through the list. No response. "Come on. Focus. Tea. Choose."

"Herbal."

Alex hadn't offered that (oh Burr was impossible!) but they did have it. He took a pair of mugs and looped his fingers through. "Come on. This way."

Thank god, Burr followed.

 

Burr sat loose-limbed on the sofa and slouched. He was so beautiful, Alex's heart ached.

And something else.

"I'm surprised you're here," he said, to say anything at all that wasn't  _Will you please touch me? Please?_

"Nobody I care about is over this way."

Fuck. Well. That answered both of his questions, didn't it. He stared at his mug of tea. "I thought you hated me." I already  _know_ you hate me, he wanted to say; you don't have to be so goddamned open about it.

Burr said: "Thank you for the tea. I'll -- "

"Don't go. Just -- just sit. I'm sorry." He rubbed at his hair. "Don't you know how you come off to people? You're incredible in court, I've spent hours trying to figure it out" (reading transcripts, imagining the taller man walking around, gesturing, that innate presence ebbing and flowing out of him, how did he _do_  it, if Alex could have a tenth of that self-possession he'd be happy) -- 

But now Burr had his eyes shut and he looked -- he looked --

And now he had his head on Alex's shoulder and there was no mistake, he really was crying. 

It wasn't possible. It was unthinkable.

Alex couldn't think at all. He simply _(_ _finally, finally)_ let himself touch again. Just shoulders. Just pressing him upright again. "Burr? Are you all right?"

It was a stupid question. True to form, Burr didn't even react. Was he that removed from common humanity? How could anyone be so withdrawn? God, what Alex wouldn't do to get a reaction out of him, some fucking _honesty_ for a change. He wanted to see that reserve melt into softness and heat and desire and impatience; he wanted to cause it. He wanted to give it. A gift served up whole, entirely without strings. 

"Burr?" He brushed his thumbs over those closed eyelids. "Aaron? Aaron Burr?"

No answer.

Well. If Alex was the only one present here, he might as well take what he wanted.

Still he was afraid, nervous as a teenager, almost sick with the mingled desire and guilt and a sense that he shouldn't do this, there were _so many reasons_  not to do this and only his own desperate greed pushing him forward -- but its voice was loudest. Insistent. 

So Alex leaned forward and kissed him.

Burr didn't move away at once and Alex made a noise in his throat and pressed himself at a different angle and his mouth parted and he wanted -- he _wanted_ it -- 

And then Burr did move. He jumped up. He knocked over his tea and ruined a pile of papers that Alex had been haphazardly sorting, and then he just sort of stared, as if gravity were a new and foreign force to him; then he picked up his coat and started blotting at the damp. He was making everything worse.

"Stop, don't worry, it's fine -- you don't need to -- _dammit!_ "

"I'll buy you a new one. Whatever it is."

"You don't need to. It was my fault. Really. I'm sorry. I startled you. I didn't mean to do it. I shouldn't have done it, I don't know what you and your wife -- what sort of rules you have --" He was babbling, he heard it. God, why wasn't Burr talking? Had he liked it? Had he ever even kissed a man before?

"It's fine."

What a piss-poor liar he was. Alex almost smiled. "It is absolutely, transparently clear that it is not fine. I kissed you, you jumped in the air, it's _obviously_ my fault -- "

"This is why you're a terrible lawyer," Burr snapped. "You're leaving out crucial evidence --"

"Yeah," said Alex, sitting down again hard. "I left out the part where you hate me."

"My wife died," said Burr. "The funeral was today. Yesterday. So, you see? It's not you."

"Why didn't you _tell_ me? I could have -- I would have --"

"What would you have done?" said Burr, as politely as if he were really curious, as politely as if his words were not the harshest sort of critique: My wife is dead; how can you possibly fix that?

"You shouldn't have been alone," said Alex.

"I wanted to be alone."

"That's the problem." He swallowed. "Aaron, I'm sorry. And I'm doubly sorry for kissing you, now."

"Burr."

"Burr. Yes sir, mister Burr, sir." Just the words made him tight up again; he heard the shift in his own voice.  _Goddammit._  He bent over to collect his papers. "These needed to be tossed out anyway." That was one solution to his organizing needs, he guessed.

He was like that on his hands and knees, wondering how much tea was seeped into the carpet, wondering what the fuck he was going to do about Aaron Burr now, trying to focus on cold things (barren Canadian winters, ice floes) to distract his uncomfortable, inappropriate physical heat. 

"Alexander," said Aaron Burr.

Alex was hallucinating. He had to be hallucinating. Aaron Burr in his house, drunk and kissed and calling him by his first name? Maybe he was in a coma. "I'm sorry? What?"

"I don't hate you. We were both mistaken on that."

But that meant -- that meant -- 

He stood up again, dropping the papers he'd just gathered. His hands were shaking. "You've never called me Alexander before. Never. _Never._ " He would have remembered. He would have held on to it like a wishing-ring.

"Could you stop talking? I need you to understand me."

Oh, he understood; he understood so much now, and it was simple, it was effortless. He crossed the room and stood close by -- too close, probably; Burr shifted back but Alex could smell him now; he was musky and dark and almost sweet, like sandalwood and sunlight and a deep undernote of vanilla. He resisted the urge to run his thumb over the fine curve of that upper lip.

We were both mistaken, he'd said. 

"I understand you," he said, and his voice came out soft and warm. He took a deep breath and tried to speak honestly, fully -- like Laurens would do. "You're drunk and you're grieving and you don't know how much of this is real and how much is loneliness --"

"I didn't say all that --"

"You don't need to. I can say it for you. And I'm here for you until you can say it yourself, okay? I -- Aaron Burr, sir, I will take you however I can get you because I actually _like_ you." That was somewhat misleading. He swallowed. "I think we can be friends. Real friends. This is fate. You'll see it, too. Sometime."

Burr actually stared. "How long have you bottled all that up?"

It was the right expression. He felt light now; he felt effervescent, freed somehow, just from being heard. "Give me your coat, it's a mess and you'll just throw it out and you can't do with just that awful plaid one. I'm going to wash it and call your house to let your daughter know where you are. In the meantime you'll go to sleep, do you hear me? In my bed. _Alone,_ Aaron Burr. You need the rest. Stop _fighting_ me, I know better than you do --"

And (god help them both) Burr actually listened. He undressed a little and crawled in between the sheets and fell asleep immediately, it seemed, with his eyes half-closed and his mouth slightly parted. 

He was perfectly, effortlessly beautiful.

Alex stood nearby for a long time and watched him -- that head full of unknowable dreams.

Then he went downstairs and put water on for coffee.

It was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -i love Historical Theodosia Burr (both of them)  
> -Young Theo did call her mother "Ma" which sort of breaks my fucking heart, oh Theo  
> -the "Thomas" here is not (necessarily) Thomas Jefferson but hey if that is your 'ship don't let me stop you  
> -i think Alex is a little less of an ass in this chapter. POOR ALEX I AM SORRY.  
> -My Historical Boyfriend Aaron Burr did not actually have a good sense of direction -- that's an affliction we share. POOR AARON I LOVE YOU.

**Author's Note:**

> the "every word he can think of, in alphabetical order" thing is a reference to tiny lovely little scene in [AozoraNoShita](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AozoraNoShita/pseuds/AozoraNoShita)'s fic, linked above. It's the first fanfiction I ever read, and and and  
>  _sniff, sniff_  
>  that part!!
> 
> *
> 
> I'm even less lucid on [tumblr.](http://littledeconstruction.tumblr.com/)


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